The Car in the Driveway, Part Two
The Carrying · A Return to Episode 01
The Carrying · A Return to Episode 01
The Car in the Driveway, Part Two
The quiet doesn’t have to prepare you for what comes next.
From Part Two
Maybe five minutes doesn’t have to make you better.
Maybe it doesn’t have to restore you.
Maybe you can just be there.
Transcript
Read the transcript
There’s a moment after you decide not to move.
Not because you’re stuck.
Not because something is wrong.
You just... stay.
A few minutes longer than you planned.
Long enough for the engine to stop ticking.
Long enough for whatever was playing through the speakers to end.
Long enough to notice that nobody has asked you for anything yet.
And then comes the thought.
I should probably go in.
I know that thought.
I’ve had it in driveways.
Parking lots.
At the kitchen table late at night.
Sitting on the edge of the bed when I was supposed to be getting ready.
Nothing was keeping me there.
That was the strange part.
I was free to move.
I just didn’t want to yet.
A while ago, I wrote about sitting in the car after you get where you’re going.
Engine off.
House in front of you.
The whole day behind you.
And how sometimes those few minutes are the only part of the day nobody has claimed.
I thought I understood that pause.
I thought it was about being tired.
About being reachable for too long.
About needing a minute before opening the next door.
I still think that’s true.
But I think I missed something.
The part where we finally get the quiet—and immediately start trying to leave it.
Because the second things get still, we start negotiating with ourselves.
Okay.
Another minute.
Then I’m going in.
I should answer that.
I should check that.
I should finish that thing I said I’d finish.
Somebody is probably waiting on me.
And maybe they are.
But I’ve started wondering why waiting five more minutes feels like something that requires an explanation.
Why rest always seems to need a reason.
Why stopping has to be justified.
Maybe it’s because we’ve gotten used to measuring time by what it produces.
If I’m working, the time makes sense.
If I’m helping somebody, it makes sense.
If I’m solving something, answering something, building something—the time has somewhere to point.
But sitting still?
That’s harder to defend.
I used to think those driveway minutes were about getting myself together.
That’s what I would have called it.
Getting my mind right.
Taking a second.
Resetting.
Then I’d go inside better prepared to be useful again.
And even that sounds different to me now.
Because if the quiet only matters because it makes me better at what comes next—then the quiet still belongs to what comes next.
It still has a job.
Maybe five minutes doesn’t have to make you better.
Maybe it doesn’t have to restore you.
Maybe you don’t have to leave calmer than you arrived.
Maybe you don’t need to learn anything.
Or solve anything.
Or have some revelation about your life.
Maybe you can just be there.
That’s harder for me than it should be.
Doing something with a purpose makes sense to me.
Doing nothing without turning it into recovery or preparation—that’s different.
There are so few parts of adult life where nothing is being asked.
Even sleep comes with instructions now.
Get eight hours.
Track it.
Improve it.
Wake up ready.
Exercise so you can have more energy.
Take a vacation so you can come back refreshed.
Meditate so you can focus.
Rest so you don’t burn out.
We’re very good at turning rest into maintenance.
Like the only acceptable reason to stop is so you’ll be better prepared when you start again.
I don’t want every quiet moment to have to earn its place that way.
Sometimes the day can just stop asking.
And you can let it.
The phone can sit there.
The email can wait.
The dishes don’t get any dirtier because you looked at them five minutes later.
Whatever conversation is waiting on the other side of the door—it will still be there.
The house will still be there.
That’s the part I keep coming back to.
Because sometimes we act like the life waiting for us will disappear if we don’t return to it immediately.
It won’t.
The people you love will still be there.
The responsibilities will still be there.
The unfinished things will still be unfinished.
And for a few minutes—you don’t have to carry any of them.
Not because they don’t matter.
Because you matter too.
So maybe you’re listening somewhere between things right now.
Maybe you’re in the car.
Maybe you made it inside already and you’re sitting somewhere nobody knows to look for you.
Maybe today has just been louder than you expected.
I don’t have a question for you.
I don’t want you to think about what you’re carrying.
I don’t want you to make a plan for putting any of it down.
Nothing needs fixing in the next few minutes.
Nothing needs explaining.
You made it here.
That’s enough.
The house will still be there.
So before you go back—before the phone, before the door, before whatever comes next—
stay a little longer.
You made it all the way here.
This is Stay a Little Longer.
From this piece
Stay a Little Longer
An original song connected to The Car in the Driveway, Part Two.
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